Chapter Three

It first happened when Jess was done showing off his rifle skills and Gene Winslow tapped Jess on the chest. "I want you seated right on top."

Ever since that moment, it would have been impossible for Jess to count the number of times that he told himself that this ride shouldn't feel any different than all the others he had held the position of shotgun for. He was wrong. Considering what was being protected, Jess did know this before he even took the rifle in hand on that show and tell day, but the real emotions didn't take a bite out of his being until he really was sitting on top and holding the long iron that had won him this job.

Was it frightening? Jess would have shaken his head at that answer. He had already used a similar word when talking things over with Slim, but Jess was far from being knock-kneed or having goose-pimples cover his arms. It was tense, though. The air in itself was thick with it, and the men, they were wearing it even more. If Jess wasn't alert to everything around him, he would have stiffened up so tight that the first bump of the coach would have sent him overboard in a similar manner as how the biggest boulder bounced downhill in a rockslide.

But even fifty thousand pounds of tension couldn't overpower Jess Harper.

He missed nothing. Every bird that lifted out of its nest, Jess was aware of. He saw the wind playing with treetops, tall and short alike. When an animal called out, Jess' ears picked out the distinct notes of both the predator and its prey. This awareness went deeper than nature, or anyone that was bold enough to try to hide among the earth's canopy. It went all the way to his core, and farther, straight through to his backside. As every rattle and roll underneath him shifted Jess' weight against the seat, he thought of the money, its size, its importance. And that his life was guarding it.

Of course Jess remembered there were others on board with him, but he also remembered what Spinner had said. The shotgun riders would be the first to drop. And he was right. Drivers weren't placed on top to fight, only to drive. The men inside, now they were more than able to fire a steady stream, but they weren't in open territory like Jess was. Maybe knowing this fact was why Jess felt the tension thicken even more as he watched the trail unfolding in front of him, and that he might have decided he was afraid after all. They were nearing the fifty mile mark of the journey, but this was nothing to celebrate. Entering a dangerous stretch of road, the path narrowed for a full mile to run alongside a mountain stream. Any roughneck that knew anything about upending a stagecoach would say that this was the perfect place for an attack.

Jess' hearing would get drowned inside the tumult. At the same time the water was making its wild churn beside them, a canyon wall loomed high on the opposite side, cutting Jess' vision down to the ground ahead. All he could do was sway with the stagecoach and be ready to spin and fire toward anything that didn't belong. And then in what seemed like nothing more than a blink of Jess' eyes, they were through the worst part. Nothing happened, no one was in sight.

Slowly the sound of the water dimmed, returning Jess' ability to hear beyond pounding hooves and the turning wheels. The canyon wall turned into a meadow where a group of deer munched, only pausing in their meal to listen to the coach rumble by. Everything looked normal, felt it, too. One mile passed, and then another and Jess' body began to ease back into the rhythm that wasn't so worrisome.

Until the front wheel crunched over a rock, making Jess' shoulder swing into the one next to his. "Sorry, Zeke."

"Not your doing," the driver said with a head shake. "It's this here coach's fault. Is it just me or are we both bouncing extra hard on what we're sitting on?"

Jess' mouth found reason to curl. "Both. I reckon it's as if we've got hot coals in each pocket."

"I think it's because we do," Zeke answered, nodding toward the cargo. "I thought the boss was joshing when he said we were gonna be hatching the money like a chicken treats her eggs."

"Nope. Slim and I built the compartments yesterday."

"Kinda smart, that, but I dunno, I think I'd feel less funny if all that dough was locked inside a strongbox."

"Nobody knows about it but those on board. Well, the boss and Sheriff Cory too, as it was Mort's idea in the first place. But they're about as likely to perform a holdup as if I'm gonna get married tonight."

Zeke wanted to laugh, but it couldn't quite make it past his lips. "I know. Just gives a man an itchy feeling though, that one of his friends just might pull a gun on him. One hundred thousand altogether between us two coaches. Whew. I'm not just itchy, I'm tingly!"

Flicking his eyes to the rifle in his clasp, Jess shook his head. "You don't gotta worry about me none."

"Nor me, either. Why, I can't even think of what I'd buy with that kinda loot aside from a new pair of boots," Zeke said, stretching one boot out for Jess to examine. "Look at that thing, patched until patches cover patches!"

"Well, you can always take your pay direct to the shoemaker in Denver."

"What? When patches perfectly cover patches? Why I…"

A rifle's crack stole whatever was left in the driver's mouth, for the perfectly aimed bullet immediately took Zeke's life. Blood pooling at his feet, Jess' chest violently thumped, and the repeats would only strike him harder. This wasn't how it was supposed to be! It had only been spoken aloud by a few men, but that didn't mean it was absent from everyone else's thoughts. Now it was screaming as loudly as how the deadly bullet entered in. The shotgun rider should have died first!

Jess' teeth slammed tightly together as he fired off a string of returns. Somehow amid the pulling of the trigger he was able to force out his holler. "You just a bad shot or something? You gotta hit me!"

The only answer a round of staccato strikes against the stagecoach door, Jess followed the plume of smoke and then sent out the rest of the rifle slugs in rapid succession. The click telling him to reload, Jess let the rifle drop and went for his hip. It was too important to keep firing, even if he couldn't see the killer he was shooting at.

A hard hit against the wheels jostled Jess' body into the dead man. It was impossible to not look at Zeke's ashen face. It was even more difficult to not look at the gaping hole in his chest. It must have been a direct hit to his heart.

Again Jess' lips parted, although his voice lost most of its strength. "I'm sorry, Zeke. That was supposed to've been me."

Even if the whys were too far away to take hold of, Jess continued to wonder, but then every thought of self went away faster than the bullets Jess flung toward his unseen enemies. Was Slim's coach suffering the same kind of assault? It would be the next nag of his mind that finally allowed Jess' knees to wobble and goose-pimples to form. If the bullets were flying however many miles away with the same kind of heat, was Slim's driver just as slumped over, or did that gunman have a better aim? If there was truth in those worries, Slim could be the one being welcomed into heaven's gates right now.

Fear came close to dropping Jess from his perch, but with a wide turn barely keeping the coach's wheels spinning on the roadway, Jess realized it was more than his own body out of control. The horses were trying to fling him loose. One more sway like that, and the entire stagecoach would spill to the ground with him.

The first shot had all the blame of the wild fidget, but the moment the reins went limp at Zeke's death, the horses reared in panic, bouncing the coach like it was nothing but an old tin can on the wrong side of a gunfighter's target practice. Now with Jess shooting at everything that dared to move and the four rifles inside the coach doing the same, the rattle and shake was so severe, Jess knew his body wasn't going to stay on top for much longer. Zeke's fell at that last turn. The only thing that kept Jess' gut from revolting was that he knew the poor man felt nothing. But Jess, any moment he could be in the exact same condition. Maybe worse. He could survive both gunshot and fall.

It was true that one gun more or less wasn't going to make any difference, but someone holding the reins could prevent all of them from dying. And while he was closer than anyone, Jess couldn't let go of his iron. A killer just might come into his sights. And he owed however many Jaspers were out there far more than a simple taste of lead.

Offering a fast reload, Jess bent his head toward the rickety rig. "Rusty, get up here!"

Understanding the need, Rusty tucked his six-gun inside his beltline and crawled through the window. Jess watched the critical moment when both hands connected to the luggage rack. Fully exposed, Jess fired the entire amount of bullets to keep Rusty from taking one himself, but even still, the man wouldn't make it to the top.

Wheels already going wild, it wouldn't take much for them to spin out of control. A pair of hand-dug divots suddenly hit, the coach bucked with the ferocity of a stallion gone mad, breaking the tug chain, spewing free the pull pin and completely demolishing the front two wheels. Rusty dropped, and amid his scream, immediately became the victim of the overturning stagecoach.

With the severity of the crash, how could Jess be spared from the worst? Somehow his name wasn't going to be permanently etched on this section of ground. Jess' stance had been too precariously placed on the driver's seat as he sent off round after round to protect Rusty that when the stagecoach began to tumble, Jess' body launched into the air as if he were nothing but a small circle of popcorn bursting upward on a tendril of steam. The sounds of death wrenched his gut to shreds, but as Jess watched the ground reach up to grab him, he could only utter one name.

"Slim?"

The darkness was almost instant. Almost. In that brief second where pain existed, Jess wondered if he was really feeling the hit of the earth, or was that a rifle's slug digging into his chest until it reached his partner's heart?

They didn't come close until the wheels stopped spinning. The dust would take longer to settle, as would the nearby blood, and they wouldn't wait for either brown or red to cease. It was time to get what the pair of men came for, and then ride right on out.

His soft footsteps were the only thing able to break through the eerie silence. But then there was another noise. A groan, actually it was closer to a vengeful cry, and as a body tried to pick himself out of the dirt, he dropped the butt of his rifle into the man's hair, turning whatever light he might have seen into complete darkness.

"Hurry up!" hissed his partner.

"Whaddya wanna do, leave Kelly wide-eyed and ready to shoot me?"

"No, but stop looking everyone over and just get it! And pick up all the guns, too. Dead or unconscious, it bugs me to see all of those irons within arm's reach."

He would admit to checking the next man's chest as he picked up his six-shooter, but that would be the last he would notice any rise or fall. The rest of the bodies scattered about, and their guns almost as wildly placed, he was unable to tell the difference between the dead and the unconscious anyway. Walking to the coach's front, he held the axe above the driver's seat. With a grunt through his lips, the blade broke into the wood. One would think with all of those dollar signs exposed that the only thing a pair of eyes could do was stare at it, but while he did take a few seconds to gawk, he was feeling a mighty big prod to hurry from both the man on horseback and inside his own being. Since he couldn't tell the difference between the dead and the unconscious, he would have to pack it up and run. The money could be counted and recounted all he wanted later, but he had to get away from the scene before anyone else could wiggle a single eyelash and identify him.

Haversack stuffed, he tossed it to the waiting man and then mounted himself. It was done, but there was too much sweat going down his face to feel relief. Something else might give him some comfort, at least satisfy a craving, and his fingers started reaching for his pocket and a match to light it.

A long puff going out, he dug his spurs into his horse's sides. "Let's go!"

It could have been the thunder of hooves. More than likely it was the thunder inside his brain that made Jess' head barely able to rise away from the ground. But even while pain and weakness kept most of Jess' body attached to the earth, there would be something in having his nostrils not pressed into the uneven texture of dirt. The blood of his own body assaulted his senses. He wasn't shot, not that he could tell. He had to be hurt, though. That was his blood that he smelled, felt, and as his tongue took a wander around his lips, even tasted. Someone else must be worse off than he, for it wasn't only the fragrance of blood wafting into his brain, but death. No, there was definitely something more, something just as vile. And just as darkness was pulling its thick quilt over Jess' eyes, he smelled a dirty, old cigar.

.:.

Slim suddenly gripped his rifle tighter. There was nothing to see, nothing was pricking his ears, but there was something to feel. His entire spine was beginning to tingle. He understood why he first thought of Jess. That was friendship, that was fear, but Slim should have been experiencing some trepidation for his own being. It was about to get hit. A gun exploded somewhere among the trees, and its bullet traveled so close to his flesh that Slim felt its heat.

"Get down, Tex!"

The warning came too late, for the second rifle's crack crumpled the body next to his, and while Slim fired off a pair of rounds into the hillside where the killer must be hiding, another was coming from the opposite side. Spinning his frame, the bullet passed by Slim, taking another gouge out of Tex' body instead. He knew the man was dying, but there couldn't be any sort of vigil offered, only the lowering of Slim's head and arms as he grabbed the reins from Tex' loosening grip.

He flung the leather with a mighty snap. "Hi-ya!"

The horses responding to his jerk, the team turned off the roadway, giving the men on the inside a clearer view of what to shoot at. It was rougher going on the uneven ground, bouncing every part of his body until Slim's teeth chattered with something other than fear. He worried for the horses' health, but weren't they already in peril? The gunmen didn't seem to care what they were shooting at, just so they could stop the coach.

Again Slim gave the team a hearty slap. "Come on boys, get up and go! We can outrun them!"

He looked behind them. There was some hope in this call. The blasts from the men that started the ambush seemed to be getting quieter. Only the shots coming from the stagecoach were close enough to burn his ears. If they hadn't been seated in leather at the time of the attack, there would be that much time on their sides. But as the horses struggled to go over a hillside, Slim was forced to turn the team to go around it instead. One hard jab of spurs in an animal's sides and the outlaws could be breathing down their necks in seconds.

A head bent out a window. "Say, Slim. Where're you taking us?"

"I'm not sure. Isn't there a road to the Grayline Mine around here?"

"Yeah. Half mile this way, I reckon. Mightn't be in good shape, though."

"It's better than what we're rolling on. Get up, boys! Just a little further, and then we'll point to Stony Ridge Relay. If we can reach it, we're safe."

"You're right there. Ol' Stony's got sons and hired hands, and all know how to shoot at no-goods!"

"That's what I was thinking."

But they had to get there first.

The wheels were turning slower, but somehow every bounce of the coach was harder as they hit every rock, no matter the size. But then someone else was about to hit them, this in the form of lead. Ducking at the crack of the rifle, Slim's eyes flew wide. They were ahead of them!

Unable to turn the team a second time Slim kept the horses straight, praying that the rifles inside the coach would do more damage than the ones outside of it. The path to the Grayline mine in sight, Slim barreled the coach toward the smoother ground. Just a little bit further and they could at least double their speed.

Bullets still coming at him strong, Slim heard at least one breath sizzle and fade away. He would have liked to believe that it was from the enemy's side, but Slim knew that it was one of his team. And as his heart pounded in both agony and anger, another hard jab came at his chest. It wasn't a bullet, but the way it felt, it could have been called the same.

Was Jess' coach under the same kind of fire? Maybe the reaction to one of his men on board getting hit was so strong because Jess had just taken the same. Slim wanted to close his eyes and shut off all the noise, the terror, the death, just to connect with the spirit of his partner to know which side of life he was on, but Slim could only focus on this right here, or his death would come just as hard, just as fast. Maybe it would anyway. After all, how long could the horses keep going like this?

But it wouldn't be the swift legs going out on them first. The coach couldn't take one more rock, one more rattle. A wheel splitting in half, the horses gave the final heave in an attempt to get the entire load on the roadway. Only the horses would keep going. An axle buckling, the wood pierced the ground, flipping the stagecoach to its side.

Flailing even before the coach's death, Slim crashed into a cluster of rocks, barely getting missed by the large structure as it sputtered to its resting place. But Slim would never know how close his skull was to being crushed. Oblivion met him the moment he landed.

And then just as fast as it started, it was over. The smoke dissipated, the wheels went silent, souls let go of the battle and gave themselves to heaven. But there was still one thing left to do. A man walking toward the stagecoach with an axe in hand, he let the blade pierce into the already broken seat.

Hands digging into the pile, he brought two bundles up to his mouth and proudly gave each a kiss.

"Let me have a sniff," said his companion, so eager for a taste that he shoved the other man out of his way. "Ah, that's more like it. Prettier than any hourglass figure, for sure."

"Hurry up and get it packed."

"You're the one who started romancing the loot."

"Yeah, but you didn't have to follow suit, especially when they ain't all dead."

Half the money already stuffed away, he flung a thumb toward the scattered bodies. "How can you tell? They all look the same to me. Dead!"

He looked at the blonde head, dappled with red and smiled. "I know I saw that one breathing."

"You want me to finish him?" He asked, swapping cash for iron. "Buck said to just let Harper live and he's on the other coach."

"No. Let him lie. More'n likely he'll bleed to death before the day's through."

"That's good enough for me."

Pointing to the haversack, he shook his head. "No. This is what's good enough for me. Let's go."